


Concealed

by WriterToBridge



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Agent Julian Bashir, Buried Alive, Claustrophobia, Developing Relationship, Holodecks/Holosuites, M/M, Panic Attacks, Regret, Self-Harm, Spies & Secret Agents, Wishful Thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 04:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8356297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterToBridge/pseuds/WriterToBridge
Summary: It was dark and humid.That's all Elim Garak knew about the new surroundings when he woke up. But as he investigated, he learned the terrifying truth: somehow he'd been buried alive. There is a spark of light, though, that speaks to him from outside the box. His dear Doctor Bashir is on the way to save him. However, nothing is ever as simple as it seems.





	

**Author's Note:**

> [Cover Art](http://writertobridge.tumblr.com/post/152679334573/concealed-a-star-trek-deep-space-nine-short) on Tumblr.

It was dark and humid.

Certainly the perfect contrast to the bright, bleak Bajoran station Garak had grown so used to over the years. He really would have found the change more agreeable if the implication that someone had dragged him from his quarters while he slept hadn’t been quite as unsettling. This wasn’t the first time he’d woken to new surroundings though. He had far too many encounters with similar scenarios in the past. Luckily the repeated yet isolated events taught him the best way to respond to cases like these. Gathering information was his top priority. Once he understood where he was and the position he’d been placed in, removing himself from the situation would be far simpler. Any distresses that might accompany his newfound discoveries were secondary at best.

Garak shifted his arms from his stomach to his sides. He intended to sit up and looking around, but as his fingers brushed against the rumpled fabric of his pajama top, his pinkies ran along a set of opposing walls. He froze. They were close -- far, far too close -- but that hardly meant they completely surrounded him. They could simply be a set of parallel panels placed there solely to produce a panicked response. Slowly, he allowed his finger tips to brush along each surface. They were slabs, really. Smooth, lukewarm slabs that extended from his hips to his stomach, past his chest, to his shoulders, next to his head, and then cut 90-degree angles to form a barrier just out of reach of his hair. He nudged his right foot over. His toes grazed the same flat face his right hand was still pressed on. Completely surrounded then. Then perhaps, lingering only centimeters above him, was a final piece of confinement -- another slab, a ceiling, a lid, perhaps -- which circled him, held him, seized him, and wouldn’t release him until his air ran thin and his body expelled one last, insignificant breath. That was if his body was ever released at all.

No. It was a trick. It had to be. No doubt whomever was responsible for his relocation knew he suffered from claustrophobic attacks. That’s why they placed him in a dark space with walling that nearly brushed against his scales. But the ceiling, or whatever was beyond his perception, had to be farther up. It would be. The figure that placed him here would no doubt want to see him sit up and watch Garak’s terror melt into angry relief. He had to give them that satisfaction. He had no choice. But part of him would be glad to do it.

He pressed his hands under him and gradually pushed himself up. It would only take seven seconds for him to sit up fully. Seven lengthy, excruciating seconds. One. Two. Thr--

 _Thunk_.

Garak’s forehead bumped into another flat surface. His breath hitched.

“Computer--”

The word echoed. It didn’t escape. It wouldn’t. It was trapped, sealed up, packed away, just as he was. The unknown figure who stowed him here had every intention of keeping him and his words confined in the compact prison and coiling darkness that began to spiral into his lungs and feed his rapidly dissolving mind. His own increasingly ragged breaths began to fill the space and intermingle in that twisting black. How long until those breaths rushed back into his body? How long until he choked on the collecting fragments of compulsive respiration? How long until he’d slip out of this blackness and into another with one last wheeze?

“No,” Garak whispered. He laid down and thrust his hands against the ceiling. His fingers skittered shakily across the imposing surface. “They could not have trapped me in this... this dungeon with no means of escape. Certainly they must have--”

Must have what? The surface above him was a slate with no cracks, no wear, no marks -- the epitome of perfect architecture. He pushed. No give. He pushed harder. It held. Not even tendrils of darkness slipped free.

Nothing was getting out.

Encased. Entombed. Trapped. _Trapped_! The very notion of it would’ve driven him mad before but now he touched it, saw it, _lived_  it -- oh, how he lived it! There was no escape. Not now. Not ever. All that remained for him was the black that danced along to his litany of whispered “no”s and flailed swings against the static slate. Thuds and smacks set a disjointed rhythm and articulated the fear that enraptured his heart and coursed through his body, his mind, his very spirit. There was a crack, just one, as searing pain blasted through his right arm. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not when his frenzied thoughts gathered around one single idea even in the rising sea of panic. Freedom. That’s all that mattered. Freedom, air, space, light, out, out! _out_!--

“Garak!”

He stilled. A voice. He hadn’t expected a voice. And he knew that voice from somewhere too. It sounded different -- muted, tinny -- yet it still held a spirited quality that only living entities could offer.

“Garak?” it asked again. “Are you there?”

The voice was in there with him. There was no denying that. But it came from a speaker that was settled on the flooring just to the right of his head, not from proximity to the voice’s owner. He reached his left hand towards the speaker unconsciously, as if he wanted to touch the man responsible for abating his phobic fit, even if the ease was only temporary.

“Doctor,” he said. Despite the new calm, fear still shook Garak’s voice.

“That’s right,” the voice as polite and gentle as ever, “Can you tell me where you are?”

“No. It’s far too dark and...” He paused, swallowed, shifted. His feet hit the bottom of the box. He recoiled. His knees hit the lid. A whine almost escaped his throat. “And cramped.” Even whispered the words tried to suffocate him. Panic rose like bile in his throat. His breath caught, pushed, stuttered in a broken cadence. His hands reached for the slate and pushed again. Heat rippled through his right arm. A choked cry edged from his throat.

“Garak, calm down,” the Doctor said. Oh, the nerve! To even suggest calmness while Garak was nestled in such a dark, narrow space.

“Oh, yes, calm down, certainly, it’s not as if I have anything to panic about, Doctor!”

“Garak, please, you need to relax. Just take a few deep breaths for me.”

Oh, how Garak wanted to counter Doctor Bashir’s instructions with a lengthy soliloquy about people longing to escape the infirmary simply because they didn’t want to see the Doctor’s peppy, pretentious face. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. The good Doctor’s feelings aside, he was right. Panicking wouldn’t grant freedom. All it did was cloud Garak’s mind in moments where clarity was necessary. So Garak settled for breathing. He inhaled, sharp and fast, and exhaled just as quickly. He repeated the process again and again, each time striving to slow his respiration and, in turn, his trembling heart. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Pause. Exhale.

“Good,” Doctor Bashir finally said through the speaker, “Now I want you to try and conserve as much oxygen as you can. Don’t make any strenuous movements or do anything else that might waste the air you have left. I’m coming to get you.”

That would have been reassuring if a certain transparency hadn’t already entered the conversation. Garak lulled his head to the right and glared, as if somehow the good Doctor would see his irritation through the speaker.

“That’s all well and good, Doctor, but since you asked me where I am, I’m quite certain that you have no idea as to where I’ve been placed. Is that not the case?”

“I have a few leads.”

Garak rolled his eyes.

“You say that as if this is one of your intelligence agent programs. I assure you, Doctor, this predicament is quite real.”

Silence answered him first. Under normal circumstances, this kind of silence would be appealing -- an indication that he’d broken through some secret barrier and a magnificent truth would soon emerge -- but here, in this staling darkness, that silence felt like a hypo scraping against the back of his skull. And the truth that accompanied the silence could set it off and spill more madness into his fragile, crumbling mind.

“Technically,” the Doctor finally said, “This is one of my intelligence agent programs.”

Garak wasn’t sure what answer he’d expected. That, however, wasn’t it. He blinked.

“I beg your pardon?” Garak asked.

“I was in the holosuite going through one of those programs when I was knocked unconscious. I woke up in a completely different room and the people I’d been with were gone. It wasn’t part of the program, so I thought maybe there was a malfunction. I tried to leave to talk with Quark about it, but the exit wouldn’t appear. When I tried to reach ops, no one answered. I can’t even access the computer right now.”

“You’re certain you’re still in the holosuite?”

“Absolutely,” the Doctor said. He sounded confident. Very confident. Garak, however, was not nearly as sure.

“How can you be certain of that?” he asked.

“There were two items on the table in front of me when I woke up,” the Doctor said, “One of them was this communications device. The other was a recording.”

A recording. Well, at least they had something to work with.

“Do you have the recording on you?” Garak asked.

“Yes.”

“Play it for me.”

“Garak, I really don’t think--”

“I don’t care what you _think_ , Doctor. I care about getting out of this confinement and finding the person responsible for this reprehensible act. Now, play the recording.”

There was silence again. Hesitation. The Doctor was still attempting to hide something from him. Garak had been under the impression that his position couldn’t get any worse. Perhaps that impression was misguided.

A click sounded over the speaker. A deep, warped voice followed.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Bashir,” it said, “I have watched you entertain yourself in these holosuite programs of yours for quite some time. Now I want you to entertain me. On the table you will find a communication device. It’s a direct link to your precious Cardassian tailor who’s been buried alive somewhere within this program. If you uncover him alive, I’ll give you access to the computer and you’ll both be free to go. If you fail, however, you will find yourself suffering the same suffocating fate.”

Buried alive. Garak had been buried alive. It hadn’t even been out of spite towards Garak himself. No, he was torn from his quarters and thrust into a seemingly metal casket all because some faceless figure wanted to toy with Doctor Bashir in the holosuite. There were better ways to do this. Ways that didn’t involve heaving Garak into such a tight, maddening space. And if this space was truly necessary, wouldn’t the doctor being placed inside be far more gratifying? Yes, certainly. Though it would wound Garak’s heart if something happened to the good Doctor, at least it wouldn’t be him struggling against the brink of hysteria. If it was meant to torture the Doctor--

It was working.

Oh _yes_! -- how he’d sorely underestimated the Doctor’s sacrificial mentality. Garak was certain Bashir’s heart ached with the same tightening anxiety that seized his own. Yes! _Yes_! Oh, how the boy’s heart must ache! And how that man, that shapeless shadow, must be enjoying their tandem torture. That thought alone provoked a primal need to act. He refused to play the victim in this man’s narrative. He meant to escape, to breathe, to live and he wasn’t about to wait for the Doctor. Not anymore.

Garak turned to roll onto his stomach. His right hip and shoulder skimmed the top of his premature coffin. It made him shudder and gasp but he refused to let the unsettling contact hinder his movements. With one last push and a small bit of wriggling, he managed to settle onto his chest. Good. Garak took one breath, another, and then pushed up. His right wrist screamed in protest. Garak screamed with it but didn’t stop. His back hit the closed lid. He rammed against it once. Twice. A third time. A forth. There was no give, no yield -- nothing but wasted effort entangled in ragged, trembling breaths. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Not until that surface gave and he and the darkness twisted free from this early tomb. But it wouldn’t. The more he smashed into that unforgiving surface, the clearer the crippling reality became.

He couldn’t help himself.

He couldn’t leave, couldn’t get out, couldn’t be free. He’d die here -- die in the confines of a small casket deep beneath the folds of computer generated earth. Someone would find his body, broken and torn, once the simulation sifted away but they wouldn’t see his mind, which would shatter long before his body caved. After one last crash against the lid, Garak finally let his bruised frame settle on the bottom of his tiny tomb. He let out a cry, broken and strangled, and then fell into a fitful silence. Silence that he almost shattered with a dry, conceding sob.

“--ear me?”

Words. Not his. No, the voice too kind, too soft, too medicinal; a soother to his scampering heart. He tilted his head in an unconscious attempt to entice the voice to speak.

“Garak?”

Doctor Bashir. Garak forgot the man was there. His fit tore that knowledge away. The Doctor had been present for one of these fits before -- he’d even dragged Garak away from the space that triggered his uncontrolled outburst -- but he doubted the Doctor was prepared for a reaction that intense. Garak was hardly prepared himself. Had he not restrained his actions, he was bound to have broken more bones beyond his throbbing wrist. He was fortunate. Fortune had little else to do with this situation though.

“Doctor, I... I cannot leave this imprisonment on my own,” Garak whispered, the volume hardly hiding the tremor in his words, “I... I need--”

“I know, Garak,” the Doctor said, his voice far more compassionate than Garak ever remembered, “I will do everything I can to get you out of there. I just need time.”

“I afraid I can’t provide you with any more time, Doctor,” Garak answered. His voice was louder, but no more stable.

“Yes, you can. Just stay still and focus on taking steady, even breaths.”

Steady, even breaths. Surely that was attainable. Garak took a shaky breath. Then another. And another. Each one caused him to sink further onto his arms. The fifth brought with it a surge of fire that rippled through his right wrist. He bit back a yell. Clearly this position wasn’t suitable for his rather pitiful attempt at ease. He’d have to roll onto his back again. But that meant moving and wasting precious air, precious time. How much though? Minutes worth? Seconds? Surely the Doctor wouldn’t wait until the last moment to dig him up from this premature grave but he couldn’t be sure. As bright and quick as the Doctor was, their adversary was likely just as cunning. Wasted air could mean the difference between success and failure, freedom and captivity, life and death. Was that unrealistic? Garak could only assume it was as realistic as the thinning air, the confining quarters, the arduous darkness. Computer simulated, certainly, but it felt, and was, real. Very real. It tore out his breath, made him tremor, bowed his head, nearly urged a whine, a whimper, a cry--

 _No_! No. He wouldn’t give into another fit. There was hope -- light -- on the other end of that speaker and Garak had every intention of seeing it. He just needed find a comfortable position, remain still, and keep breathing.

Garak shifted onto his left side, careful not to jostle his right arm. He could take the pain -- he certainly had experienced far worse in the past -- but a sudden jolt and yell might pull the Doctor’s attention to him. Doctor Bashir needed to focus on the twisted little game they were thrust into, not on Garak’s weak cries, pain-filled or otherwise. Once he rested fully on his side, he turned onto his back. It took a moment to get comfortable -- his aching shoulders didn’t care much for gravity’s pressure -- but once the tides of pain slipped into a dull throb, Garak closed his eyes and took a fat, deep, quivering breath.

“It’s quite alright, Garak,” Garak whispered as he exhaled, “It may be a small, enclosed space but Doctor Bashir is on his way. And he needs you to stay still and breath. That’s all. Just keep breathing. Keep--” He took a sharp breath in. “Breathing.” He exhaled. His words stopped. His breathing didn’t. His respiration tempo was fast at first, but with each cycle of air seemed slower, easier, less laborious.

Once his breathing stabilized, Garak noticed the rustling of fabric and soft voices on the other side of the speaker. None of the words were directed towards him. Fortunate, since the only words he could make out were the ones of Doctor Bashir and even they had a muted quality that his Cardassian ears had to strain to work through. At that moment, though, he wasn’t trying to decipher meaning. The good Doctor would inform him of changes in their situation when he could. The words were still a comfort though -- a reminder that he wasn’t facing his possibly permanent burial alone. He lilted his head to the side and tried to soak in the melodic sounds that the Doctor’s throat produced. But the voice soon stopped and footsteps took their place. The rustling of fabric grew louder and then settled into white noise far from the speaker’s reach.

“How are you doing, Garak?” the Doctor asked. Garak was glad to hear the man’s voice so clearly.

“My situation has not changed from this end, Doctor. Please tell me that you have furthered your investigation.”

“I have. I’m about to go into a meeting with Ernesto Longa. He works for the man that’s supposedly responsible for this entire situation. Mr. Bolfield.”

The name caught in the Doctor’s voice like no word had before. It was heavy, ominous. Even Bashir’s cheery optimism couldn’t touch it. Panic lurched in Garak’s stomach and tried to slither up his throat. He did his best to bat it away.

“I suspect that you two aren’t on agreeable terms,” Garak said, his voice surprisingly calm.

“He’s the leader of a massive criminal organization that’s attempting to gain control over every political power in the world.”

“Whatever for?”

“Does it matter?”

“Oh, do humor me, Doctor.”

Bashir sighed. It was a kind of exacerbated sigh that Garak had grown fond of over the years. The familiarity roused images of the promenade, of lunch, of the Doctor’s smile and gentle decorum. A smile tugged onto Garak’s lips, but as the images faded, that smile went with it.

“Bolfield believes his organization will create a world government that is far more proficient than the ones currently in place,” the Doctor said, unaware of Garak’s faltering peace.

“And you disagree?” Garak asked in a natural tone. 

“Their actions have resulted in two wars and the deaths of millions of people.”

“That hardly discusses their proficiency, Doctor. Simply their lack of morality.”

There was that exacerbated sigh again. This one didn’t conjure up memories of far more tranquil events. Shame. He could have used another momentary soother.

“I’m about to go into this meeting, Garak. Are you going to be alright?”

“I cannot say for sure, but I will attempt to maintain some level of stability.” Despite his words, dread collapsed onto Garak’s chest. The conversation proved to be far more comforting than he anticipated. Losing it now would be agonizing, and a muffled exchange between the Doctor and a unseen stranger was hardly a suitable replacement. He could hear the shuffle of fabric, the slow muting of the outside world. Panic seized him again.

“Doctor, wait.”

There was shuffling again.

“What is it, Garak?” Bashir asked. Garak was surprised at the amount of compassion that embodied those words. No doubt other circumstances would have merited irritation instead.

“Could you possibly place the communications device elsewhere? I’m afraid it’s current location is making eavesdropping on your conversations rather difficult.”

There was a pause, a shuffle, a tiny grunt, and then a momentary silence.

“How’s that?” the Doctor asked. His voice was a little distant, but clearer than it had been previously. There were no other sounds to gauge how understandable anyone else would be, but this new position certainly seemed more promising.

“It will do for now. Thank you, Doctor.”

The Doctor’s footsteps were louder. They beat like a drum and marked a tempo out of rhythm with Garak’s hurried heart. A door open. The steps continued for a few seconds. Then, silence. Garak leaned his head closer to the speaker, ready to strain himself so he could harvest every piece of information he could.

“Mr. Bashir,” a new voice said, “What a pleasant surprise.”

Garak was grateful for the clarity, but were still softer than he liked. He had to tilt his head entirely onto the speaker in order to arise perfect clarity. It didn’t help that this new man had an unidentifiable accent. One from Earth, no doubt.

“I was told that you could get me into a meeting with a certain operative from your organization,” the Doctor said.  Straight to the point. Disappointing. Bashir was a good Doctor but a terrible spy. No matter what motives he had, Garak would never display his hand so boldly. It just wasn’t smart.

“Mr. Bolfield,” the new voice said. The name was followed by a chuckle. “He would be happy to meet you, Mr. Bashir, but I won’t be able to set up a meeting for you. You see, he’s far more interested in seeing you dead than alive.”

Gunfire echoed through the speaker. Garak turned his head and winced. He hadn’t been so caught up in the exchange that he sought cover though. He had plenty of that. He just hoped that the good Doctor found some for himself. It certainly seemed that way due to the continued gunshots. But then they stopped. There were some grunts, some blows, some crashing. A yell. Bashir’s. Another gunshot. A crackle. A fizz.

Silence.

Garak opened his eyes, blinked, tilted his head back towards the speaker, and waited. The audio didn’t come back.

“Doctor?” Garak asked. No answer. His heart heaved. He nearly choked on it and the rebounding panic that lurched up from his knotting stomach.

“ _Doctor_?” His voice cracked. Still, silence followed. With it drained what light he had left. The Doctor was dead. He had to be. And now there was nothing to hang on to, nothing to hope for, nothing but the isolating blackness that began to seep under every scale he had. It flooded his lungs, poured into his veins, enveloped his brain, licked against his skull, and eventually shattered the sliver of sanity he had left.

Garak smashed his fists against the immobile lid again. And again. And again. Each bang brought with it searing pain that rippled through his right arm, then his left hand. There was no give. Not at first. But lid would lift. It must. If it didn’t then there truly was no escape for him and he would die in this encasement battered and alone.

His own arid sob stopped his incessant pounding. Garak’s arms sank and folded over his clouding eyes. Another sob racked through him and tears, no doubt beautiful for his torturer, fell. His legs bent. His knees made contact with that insufferable lid and he recoiled at the contact. The jarring motion sent a scorching inferno through his arms. He gasped. He paused. He chuckled.

“So this is it then,” Garak whispered, his words choked by tears and anxiety, “Well, I certainly can’t say it hasn’t been fun.”

Oh, it had been fun, especially the past several years. Though Deep Space Nine hadn’t been a home at first, the station really did become a part of him. No, not the station. The people. Ah, yes, the people. Not all in equal ways, however. Odo, Kira, Sisko, and others all held their little charms, but it was the Doctor, his dear Doctor Bashir, who made that station shine. He never told the Doctor that. Nor did he tell the Doctor that he wished, just once, that he could go back to the man’s quarters and fall into bed with him. More than anything, he wanted to experience the Doctor in a way that allowed him to touch, to smell, to feel. Oh, how one night could have been glorious. And perhaps that one night would’ve led to others. And, eventually, something more. Something intimate. Something beyond any connection Garak had ever had. Because in truth... in truth--

The darkness didn’t matter. The isolation either. Nor the tightness that seemed to edge closer to his trembling form. All that seemed to matter was a truth, _the_ truth, that held so firm against his heart that it almost burst. He finally realized what Tain meant. After all these years, he finally understood.

Julian Bashir was a weakness he couldn’t afford.

Garak laughed. It was a broken thing that devolved into crackling, unbound sobs. Oh, how easily he’d allowed domestication to engulf him over these past several years. How simple it’d been to fall into a contenting rhythm of work and gossip and affection. And how foolish he’d become. So very foolish indeed! He could have remained strong on that station if he’d just kept distance between himself and that transcendent, tanned ball of light. But no! He had to bottle up that fluorescent form, bury it within him, and let it fester. And oh, did it fester! It’d infected his heart and poured fondness and devotion and yearning into every single pore he had. It destroyed him. And yet he would accept it! If ever he left these confines, he would gladly dance along the promenade with his dear Doctor with a bright smile and a joyous tone. But he couldn’t. That light was gone. It was his fault too. If he didn’t get caught, if he could’ve escaped, then maybe his dear, far too sweet Julian would still be alive. Nothing could be done now. Not by him. He hoped someone would pick up the case and carry out some form of retaliation. And maybe he could play a small role in that.

“Computer,” Garak said with a tone as heavy as his heart. It didn’t respond. He knew it wouldn’t. “I know you cannot release me but perhaps... you could record something for me. A message, to whomever it may concern.”

He paused.

“I’m afraid Doctor Bashir died in a brave, albeit feeble, attempt to save my life. He won’t be coming for me. I am quite certain of that. I am to believe that whoever is responsible for his death, and soon to be mine, is still loose and, perhaps, on the station somewhere. It may be in your best interest, Constable Odo, to investigate the matter as soon as this recording is uncovered. ... _if_  it is uncovered.”

Garak paused again to suck down a breath.

“Whomever took it upon themselves to place us in this situation did so because they wanted to test Doctor Bashir, not myself. I, too, am surprised by this outcome. The good Doctor played a recording for me. Although the voice was altered, the intent for murder was quite present. Perhaps if you open the program again you’ll be able to find his recording and understand my full meaning.”

He thought about ending the recording there but his heart urged him to say more. He relented.

“On a more personal note, I would like to extend my gratitude and an apology. The gratitude is for the amount of hospitality you’ve granted me during my stay on your station. Your company has made this arrangement far more pleasing, to say the least, and I am quite grateful. The apology is for being unable to save your Doctor. _Our_  Doctor. Over these past years I’ve grown quite fond of Doctor Bashir. If anyone else were in this position with me perhaps you could question the validity of this claim, but with the good Doctor I assure you that, if I could, I would have done anything to save his life. ... he was a weakness I wanted.”

He released a trembling breath.

“Computer. End recording.”

It didn’t respond. Garak expected it didn’t hear a word he said. Then he was alone. Truly, deeply alone. He clutched his hands into fists. Searing agony rippled through his arms. It brought him back to his cell. No, his coffin. That’s really what it was after all, and no amount of struggle, denial, or fear would alter that. He wished he had something to bat away that loathsome reality, but all he had were the unfulfilled wishes of a different life, a better life. Something gentler. Something more.

Garak let his despair overwhelm him. There was no point it holding it back now. He’d spent his entire life keeping himself strong, together, presentable. In these final moments he wanted nothing more than to be relieved of it all. He let out sobs and cries that would’ve sounded childish to outside ears. He paid no heed. The spoken message that wouldn’t reach beyond these walls was for everyone else. This pain, this suffering, this release -- that was for him.

But it was cut short by a sound. An outside sound. One that grated the very foundation of his beliefs. Garak’s cries caught in his throat. At first there was nothing. Perhaps his mind crafted the noise. Perhaps it wanted him to cling onto one last shard of hope. Then he heard it again. It was a shuffle of some kind. No, more than that. A graze, perhaps. Or a shift. There was another. And another. Then a knock. An unshakable, unwavering knock. There was a pause before scraping noises echoed in strips down the facing of the lid. Metal rattled. Something clicked. And then light -- beautiful, blinding light -- poured into his once sealed cell.

The light outlined a figure, a face, both familiar and both welcome to Garak’s trembling heart. He reached out to them, battered fingers aching to feel the form he was certain he’d lost only moments ago.

“Doctor,” he whispered, “I... I thought--”

“The communications device was damaged,” Doctor Bashir said as he knelt down above him, "I thought about fixing it but if I wasted time doing that, I wouldn’t have made it to you. Now let’s get you out of here and fix up your arms. Then we can talk to--”

Garak ignored the pain, snapped his arms up, and wrapped them around the Doctor’s shoulders. He pulled the man close -- so, so close -- and took a deep breath. He smelled clean, fresh, medicinal. And he felt warm. It wasn’t like the stale warmth that circled around him only moments ago. No, this was a gentle warmth, a glowing warmth. He could have gotten lost in it. Perhaps one day he would, now that he was finally free.


End file.
